Lord of the Dance
by Genevievey
Summary: Oneshot. One evening in Fitzgerald's, the locals revel with some visiting musicians, while Peter & Assumpta discuss human nature.


_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I can't seem to stop writing these. This just came into my head; it could fit somewhere late in Season 1. It's just my guess at how Assumpta might feel. Be warned: this was written at 11 o'clock at night, with the Dubliners playing on repeat._

_Of course, I don't own any of these characters, etc. etc. Please read & review!  
_

**Lord of the Dance**

Fitzgerald's was busier than usual, that night. In a town the size of Ballykissangel, word gets round fast, so if anything of interest is happening, everyone knows it. And this particular evening, the most exciting thing in the village was those musicians.

There were four of them, bearded old fellows whose instruments seemed to be natural extensions of their arms, and they were passing through. Of course, a musician is seldom known to walk _past_ a pub, and so that night they were a source of extra custom for Assumpta. She was glad of it, and not just for money's sake; being a passionate sort of person, she had always reacted strongly to music.

Brendan and Siobhan were at the bar, as usual, sipping their pints and observing the group of strangers. Assumpta was pouring them all drinks.  
"So, you're musicians?"  
"That we are."  
"Would you play something? This place could do with some livening up."  
The youngest of the group nodded in Brendan's direction. "Name a song, my good man, and we'll play it."  
"Errr…The Fields of Athenry."

With music pouring out of Fitzgerald's, it didn't take long for the pub to fill up. Father Clifford arrived, as usual, raising his eyebrows in surprise when he entered to find a sing-along. Crossing the room to lean against the bar, he grinned to Assumpta, "I've just walked into the world's biggest Irish cliché."  
She chuckled, shaking her head. "Sometimes clichés are just what we need."

Darkness was falling, and between fine music and good ale the pub was a merry place to be. The musicians were clearly enjoying their enthused audience.  
"Now, you'll all know this one…"  
As the fiddler struck up a familiar spirited tune, Peter smiled, then furrowed his brow a little. Assumpta had been smiling all evening, but he wondered how she would react to this next song.

_Dance, dance, wherever you may be  
I am the Lord of the Dance, said He  
And I'll lead you all, wherever you may be  
And I'll lead you all in the dance, said He_

But Assumpta simply smiled, gazing about her pub fondly as her patrons clapped and sang along. She didn't seem to mind the religious content. In fact, she was tapping her foot merrily; but of course, the rhythm was infectious. Then the musicians went into a musical interlude.  
"Any dancers, now!"  
The crowd laughed, tapping their feet and slapping the tables, but no one took up the challenge. But with the fiddle and the guitar weaving harmonies against the beat of the drum, it was near impossible to be still.

"Hey now!"  
"Look at her go!"  
It took some a second to notice, but then great cheers and whoops alerted everyone to the fact that the publican had begun to dance. Assumpta's face glowed with carefree merriment as she hopped a little jig; graceful though unchoreographed, with her hair bouncing over her shoulders and her skirt swishing about her ankles. Peter could only stare.  
As she laughed she couldn't help blushing prettily at all the attention, self-provoked as it was, so she grabbed Brendan and forced him to join her. Soon several patrons were on their feet in a chaotic and joyous dance. Midway through the song Assumpta escaped to her post behind the bar; breathless, flushed, and laughing. She even sang along with the final verse.

_They put me down, I leapt up high  
I am the life that will never never die  
I'll live in you if you live in me  
I am the Lord of the Dance, said He_

The patrons burst into raucous applause as the song ended. Assumpta wiped her brow, and retreated to the quiet corner in which Peter sat. She took a seat next to him, gazing around the bar, while he simply stared at her.

"I didn't know you could dance," he said, finally.  
"I'm Irish," she said, by way of an answer, and he grinned. They were silent again for a moment, and he looked down into his glass, but couldn't resist pursuing the subject.  
"I wouldn't have expected you to like that song, either."  
Assumpta turned to face him, raising an eyebrow, and he feared he was about to get another earful of her vehement feelings about the church.

"I may come across as a cynic, but I do have a heart. And whether or not I believe those lyrics the way my friends do, I can't completely reject the music, the history, the world I was born into. You know my stance on the church, but songs like that one…They were written by flesh-and-blood Irishmen, and in the end it's an expression of joy in living, whatever you perceive that joy to be. I can't resent that."  
Peter wasn't quite sure what to say. He couldn't recall a time they had discussed religious matters this way, simple honesty without aggression. He was moved by her; there were obviously some things she believed in.

The musicians struck up a melancholy tune, and the patrons began to sing along solemnly. _In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty…_

"Certainly, music and art are vital parts of human existence," he agreed, "and provide an outlet for emotion. Something else that makes life more colourful."  
Assumpta seemed a little agitated now, and interrupted, "I mean, just look around this little pub. Our friends and neighbours, drinking and laughing and sharing in something; it's so human. Men wrote these songs, men play them, and men are moved by them. I'm sorry, but I think we're selling ourselves short saying that this goodness is God's glory, when it seems like our own."

Peter couldn't help but smile thoughtfully. Looking around Fitzgerald's, he couldn't deny that there were many examples of pure humanity. Not all of it was sober or respectable, but each person in that bar was beautiful in their own varied ways…Not least of all the fiery young woman glowing in the half-light next to him. They may disagree as to the source of this beauty, but on the most fundamental matter they agreed; for all it's trials, that in that moment, life was wonderful.

Peter had fallen into a thoughtful silence, so Assumpta began to sing softly along with the rest of the patrons._  
She died of the fever, and no one could save her  
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone_

"You know," Peter grinned, "this is the Ireland I'd heard about but didn't really believe in. I'll be meeting leprechauns next."  
Assumpta rolled her eyes, and laughed. "Well, I suppose after all the shocks we've given you, the least Ballyk can do is conform to _one_ of your preconceptions."  
"It certainly hasn't been what I expected…"

And as he sat in Fitzgerald's that evening, Peter Clifford suspected that Ballykissangel had a lot more to teach him; about a colourful life, and about himself.


End file.
